Cinders
by Channel D
Summary: On 9/11/01, terror erupts and so, for some, does hatred against those who are different. Gibbs and his team of Stan Burley and an OC. Written for the NFA 9/11 challenge. Now complete.
1. Scenes from the Summer of 2001

**Cinders**

**by channeld**

_written for_: the NFA 9/11 challenge. The aim of the challenge was to write about one character's connection to the events of 9/11.  
><em>rating<em>: T  
><em>genre<em>: drama  
><em>featuring<em>: Gibbs, Stan Burley, and an OC

* * *

><p>disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Hatreds are the cinders of affection.<em>

~ Walter Raleigh

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: Scenes from the Summer of 2001<strong>

_July_

"…and this is Agent Gibbs' team, Admiral." NCIS Director Tom Morrow stopped in the part of the squad room ceded to the Major Case Response Team. Between Morrow and Rear Admiral Blake, Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs stood in quiet readiness, assured that—_hoping_ that—his duo would behave.

"This is senior agent Stanley Burley. Stan has a fond interest in NCIS' role in ship duty," Morrow said with a smile, as the lanky agent reached over to give the admiral a firm handshake.

"Who here doesn't like our connection to the Navy?" Stan said pleasantly. _Safe answer, I hope._

"…and this is the team's junior agent, Fabian Senhaji."

Fabian shook the officer's hand heartily. "A pleasure, Admiral."

A slight frown crossed the admiral's face. "_Senhaji._ Where's that name from?"

"My family's from Chicago," Fabian replied, still smiling.

"Admiral, I can show you the forensics lab. It's rated one of the best in the country." With that, Morrow, Gibbs and Blake took their leave of the squad room.

"You 'like our connection to the Navy'?" Fabian said with a smirk when the superiors were gone.

Stan spread his hands. "I was caught off-guard. Morrow knows, of course, that I've applied for an Agent Afloat position, but…"

"You're going to have to tell Gibbs sometime."

"If I _don't_ get it, I don't _ever_ have to tell him."

"Hi, Fabian," a trio of young female techs in short skirts cooed as they slowly walked by, hips swinging.

"Good morning, ladies," he replied with a bow and a wink. They giggled and moved on, with Fabian giving approving looks to the shapeliness of their legs as they did so. He was a leg man.

* * *

><p><em>And then…<em>

In the men's room a few minutes later, Fabian perused his reflection in the large mirror over the sinks, and nodded in satisfaction. His well-cut suit hung just right, and the color flattered his olive skin. He ran fingers through his black hair, recently cut to a good design. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and ran them under the faucet. Fabian's vision wasn't so far off that he couldn't see Stan come up next to him and regard him with a smirk.

"What?" asked the younger agent, straightening his neck tie and looking critically at Stan's typical outfit of a plaid shirt and one of the three neck ties (all bland) he owned. "Maybe if you didn't dress like someone who lives and works in the north woods, they'd say hi to you, too."

Rubbing his face with a wet paper towel, Stan said, "I don't know which is more amusing—your assumption that I have something to learn from you, Kid, or that I have any trouble getting women."

"I only know what I see here at work…and that's the daily outpouring of loooooove for Fabian P. Senhaji."

Stan threw the paper towel at him.

* * *

><p><em>Another day…<em>

"Gibbs, Stan, Fabian…this is Jocelyn Willis; the new lawyer in Legal," said Becky from HR, who loved introducing the new people to the rank-and-file. "She's come to us from the Department of Justice."

While Gibbs and Stan gave her smiles and gentle handshakes, Fabian's response was different. He took the 50ish, white-haired woman's hand in his. _"Enchanté, Madame,"_ he murmured silkily, while kissing the air just over her fingers.

She put her other hand over her heart and giggled. "I've always wished someone would do that to me! Oh, my!" She looked delighted.

Stan only shrugged in Gibbs' direction as the two women moved on. "What? Every team needs a charmer. I don't have the patience for the job."

Gibbs only rolled his eyes…something he seemed to do a lot around those two.

* * *

><p><em>Yet another…<em>

"No, ma'am; NCIS does not go out and investigate just because two men in turbans were seen walking down M Street by the Navy Yard. Not unless a crime is being committed…" Stan's patience was wearing thin with the tip line. The prospect of an Agent Afloat job was sounding more and more appealing.

"No, I personally don't think it's a shame that people can wear any kind of headgear they want to wear…is that the official position of NCIS? I certainly hope it is. Goodbye." He hung up the phone and looked desperately at his teammate. "I'll give you five dollars if you answer the next phone call."

"Save your money, and invest it in another neck tie from the convenience store. I'll take the next call, because I'm a nice fellow and a prince among men." Fabian hummed as he set the call buttons on his phone so that the tip line would ring there.

"Okay. How would _you_ have handled the turban question?"

"I would have said, 'Maybe it was me you saw, in my _shesh.' _"

"You don't wear a turban."

Before Fabian could answer, the tip line rang. "Good afternoon; NCIS tip line…" Then his face darkened and he hung up the phone with force.

"Who was that?" asked Stan.

"Wrong number," was all that Fabian would say.

* * *

><p><em>And another…<em>

"What's Stan really like?" asked Patty Anne, one of the two comely clerks whom Fabian had invited to lunch at the food court. The dreamy look on her face indicated she already had an opinion.

"Old. _Really_ old," Fabian said with a slight sneer. "Old enough to be my father."

"He is not," said Rose, the more practical of the two. "I heard that he's 35."

"That is _creaking_ old, in my book," Fabian persisted, digging into his plate of meatloaf. "Now I'm 24, which is an absolutely perfect age to be."

"But next year you'll be 25, and then what?"

He shuddered. "I still won't be as old as old Stan. I plan on being young and attractive for a long time yet."

* * *

><p><em>August<em>

The three agents crept up on the suspect's house. "Stan, take the rear. Senhaji, with me," Gibbs hissed.

Fabian winced a little, but didn't say anything. It was a bit annoying that Gibbs always had him as his shadow; that he was not allowed to shadow Stan, or better; be the one person to take the back entrance. He'd been an NCIS agent now for 17 months! Well, okay, a few of those were spent at FLETC, but still… Gibbs persisted in treating him like he was five years old, and in need of having his hand held when they crossed the street, lest he run in front of a car.

Going in, sigs drawn, Fabian followed Gibbs' lead right down to a hair. He was then surprised when Gibbs nodded to him to check the rom to the left. Fabian silently moved to do so, knowing that Gibbs suspected there would be nothing at all in there, or else he wouldn't have sent him in…

"Clear!" came Stan's voice from the kitchen.

"Clear!" Gibbs in the dining rom.

"Cle—_unk!"_ In the small bedroom, Fabian fell over with a small thud as someone cocked him.

When he came to, with Stan holding gauze on his head, Fabian demanded, "What happened?"

"Did you look behind the door before you entered, Senhaji?" asked Gibbs.

"No; I don't see through wood very well, Gibbs."

His boss sighed. "The door was ajar. You look through the area between the door jamb and the open door before you went in."

"Oh. Er, sor…er, I know you don't like that word."

"Learn from it." Gibbs pulled him to his feet, and then went out to see to the suspect he'd handcuffed.

"Yeah, learn from it, Kid," said Stan, giving him a mild head slap. They both laughed.

* * *

><p><em>A different day…<em>

Coming back from an unproductive trip to Norfolk on a hot day, Stan and Fabian plopped down at their desks, each with take-out lunch and a cold drink. Gibbs was off somewhere.

"You know what the difference between me and you is, Fabian?"

"No, Stanley; enlighten me." Fabian studied his French fries.

"On days like this, you get obsessively troubled by being sweaty, and I don't give a damn about it."

"Ha ha. Just don't come too close to me, Stinky." He pinched his nose. Then he noticed the small piece of paper on his keyboard, and picked it up. As he held it, his expression became very angry. Fabian wadded the paper tightly and threw it into the trash.

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Nothing. What do you think that petty officer meant by 'Key West'?"

Stan was not put off, and crossed the space to Fabian's desk in seconds.

"Hey! Get out of there! That's _my_ trash!"

"And you're _my_ team mate." Stan found the likely paper; the only crumbled one in the nearly-empty basket.

"Give me that!"

But Stan kept it out of reach as he scanned it.

_Go back to Arabia, towelhead._

"I thought you said this junk had stopped!" Stan snapped.

"Forget it! It's nothing. Ignore it, like I do."

"Oh, yeah; ignoring it is really working well for you now, isn't it? Your blood pressure's so high I can almost see steam coming out of your ears…I'm going to see if I can lift prints off this; we'll track down who—"

"I know who did it," Fabian sighed. "Or, one of three or four people here."

"Then report them! This is a violation of your civil rights, Fabe."

"There are some people who will say that Muslims in America have no civil rights."

"Don't give in to the bigots. We can't do much about the whole country, but we _can_ eliminate this in NCIS."

* * *

><p><em>Later…<em>

Fabian felt soft arms around his shoulders, and could then the black fingernails. "Abby."

"I hate haters," she said. "Well, I mean that I don't like hate, but if people wouldn't hate other people, then I wouldn't have to hate them. You see?"

'Stan told you?"

"About that stupid note you got? Yes, He thought you might need a little cheering up."

"Good old Stan."

"He's not that old." She smiled. Everyone knew that Fabian considered Stan to be old. Then she turned serious. "You've had other hate notes. You should tell Gibbs, or someone who can do something."

"Abby, this is just something I have to live with, and have done so all my life. These blowhards aren't real threats."

"But you're a big, strong agent. If you stand up now, that means that some petite Muslim woman who comes to work here wearing a head scarf doesn't have to feel intimidated."

He considered this. "These are just a few troublemakers who will probably move on to other jobs before we hire another Muslim."

She smiled and gave him a tight squeeze. "Maybe we need more like you, Fabe."

"NCIS is not ready for two or more of me," he grinned. "Although, it would be worth it if we were all on the same team to pester Stan."

"I heard that," Stan called.

* * *

><p><em>And then…<em>

Fabian wandered by Stan's desk on his way in from the elevator and saw that Stan had the agency Vacancy listing open on his computer. Stan was beaming. An Agent Afloat position had just come open, and would close in a week. "Ah; there's your—missing pen. Good morning, Gibbs," Fabian said with cheer.

Gibbs was always a little suspicious about anyone who was that cheerful this early in the day, but he didn't comment. "Someone leave you a love note, Senhaji?" He picked up a piece of paper that had a crude skull and crossbones drawn on it.

"I don't know what…" Fabian paled. He hadn't even made it as far as his desk yet.

" '_Death to jihadists'_." Gibbs read on the paper's other side. "Is this a joke, Senhaji?" When both of his men were silent, Gibbs repeated the question, more loudly.

"Uh, I don't think so, Gibbs," Fabian responded. "It's just foolishness, though."

"Sounds like a _threat_, to me," said Gibbs, staring his young agent down. "You get any other anonymous notes like this?"

"Not…just like that," Fabian hedged.

"How many others?"

"I don't know. I throw them out."

"Burley?" Gibbs turned to his other man. "What do you know about this?"

Stan shrugged. He really didn't know the answer. It was not something Fabian had wanted to talk about, and do Stan only knew of the ones that he had caught Fabian reading. He'd help his partner if he could…but when Gibbs got in one of his overbearing moods, like now, Stan was less willing to help _him_. It was times like this that drove Stan apart from Gibbs, and made his long for the freedom of being his own boss, on a ship.

Gibbs got back into Fabian's face; the paper clenched in his hand. "You get another thing like this; you come straight to me. Understand?"

"Yes, Gibbs."

Uneasily, Fabian and Stan watched as Gibbs took to the stairs, headed for the Director's office.


	2. September 11

**Chapter 2: September 11**

* * *

><p><em>September 10<em>

"…but my grandparents came from Morocco; all four of them," Fabian related while the MCRT truck rolled along. "Both sets immigrated during World War II. My father's father was a physicist; my mother's father an astronomer. The couples arrived within two years of each other, and settled in Chicago, which is where all of their kids were born. My father was the second of six kids. My parents met while at Northwestern University. There was love in the air." He smiled. "And I'm the youngest of three kids. The baby of the family. Dad's still in the Navy; stationed at Great Lakes, as he always has been. My brother's in the Navy, shipboard, on…I can't remember which one right now. Just got a promotion to first lieutenant. My sister's in the Air Force. She likes to fly. I might have gone Navy but I'd rather be a cop. I feel like I'm helping out more that way. And that's me, in a nutshell."

Stan sighed. "Geez, Kid; when I asked, 'Where did you come from?', I meant, 'Did you just come out of that cabin, or did you just come from the ranger's office?' "

"Oh. Well, rewind my conversation; I take it all back. I never said it." Fabian made a twirling motion with his hand.

Gibbs only grinned. He loved his team. Although they sometimes drove him crazy, he couldn't ask for a better one.

* * *

><p><em>September 11<em>

Gibbs' team was at NCIS very early that morning; there would be a 5 a.m. stakeout at the dockyard to try to catch possible smugglers. When a suspect was taken into custody shortly before 8, they were happy to then head back to headquarters. If the day was uneventful, Gibbs said he would let them go home early to make up for the lost sleep.

At about 8:30 they entered the squad room. While Fabian wandered off for a cold bottle of water from the break room and Gibbs went upstairs, Stan dropped down at his desk and pulled up his email. He was smiling when Fabian came back in.

"You're excited about something. You're practically shaking," Fabian remarked. "Did—"

Stan nodded eagerly. "I got it. Posting to the _S.S. Liberty Bell._ Effective October 1. Man, that doesn't give me much time to pack up." His eyes took on a far-away look.

"Aw, heck. I'm glad for you, but sad for me. It won't be the same around here without you, Stanley."

"Don't be like that, Kid. Just think: you'll now be the senior agent on the team!"

Fabian snorted. "They'll bring in someone with years of experience, and I'll still be the junior agent."

"Well, maybe you're right. But that won't be forever. I can see you pushing around a snot-nosed kid someday soon."

"Hey, yeah! That'd be cool," said Fabian.

Their thoughts were cut off as Gibbs flew down the stairs, and running to the TV, turned the volume up.

"Gibbs…?"

"A plane's hit the World Trade Center in New York," Gibbs said. He swore at the TV, which hadn't caught up, instead still showing a happy-talk piece on an adorably cute puppy. "Ah! There." _Breaking news…_

"What is it?" "What's going on?" Other employees nearby crowded around the TV set, and ones at the other end of the squad room met at their TV, turning up its volume.

"A plane's hit the World Trade Center." "That's not possible. Manhattan's not in any of the flight plans." _"Look!"_

_"Gibbs!"_ Director Morrow called down from the balcony, and Gibbs went up the stairs at a run.

Gibbs followed Morrow into MTAC. The SECNAV's face popped up on a screen. _"Fighters from Otis AFB in Massachusetts are being scrambled,"_ he said without preamble. _"This looks like a terrorist attack."_

* * *

><p>Down in the squad room, all thoughts of work gone, people watched the news, transfixed. A few stood apart to phone family and friends, asking if they've seen the news. And then…"There's another plane!" <em>"Oh my God!"<em> It disappeared from view behind the towers, with a cloud of smoke showing a minute later.

Now people were screaming. "Hey! _Stay calm!"_ Stan yelled, and got on top of a desk to get their _attention_. _"Stay calm!_ We need more information. Right now, _we're_ safe, and we're going to _stay_ safe. Those pictures you're seeing are happening 400 miles away."

"But, Stan; those poor people on those planes…!"

"Maybe some of them will get out all right," Stan said, though he didn't believe that.

"This _your_ people's doing, towelhead?" an agent standing near Fabian growled.

"Unless you have a crystal ball, you don't know _anything_, Meadows," Fabian shot back. "Just like your ilk was quick to accuse _us_ after the Oklahoma City bombing."

"Don't fight," said Ducky, who'd appeared suddenly. "Let's get the facts."

Stan's phone rang. A moment later, he climbed down off the desk and grabbed Fabian. "Gibbs and the Director want us up in MTAC, _now_." He turned to Ducky. "You'll have to be the voice of reason here."

"Oh, dear. Well, then," Ducky said as the two swiftly departed. "People, I have to say, this reminds me of the time when I was in Russia, before the breakup of the USSR…"

* * *

><p>"How can it get worse?" Stan asked grimly, as he and Fabian entered the dark war room. "I assume you've called us here because it's gotten worse?"<p>

"You heard about the second plane hitting the World Trade Center?" asked Morrow. "We know that both of those flights…American Airlines flight 11 and United flight 175…had taken off from Boston, within minutes of each other. American has now grounded all of its flights in the Northeast. What we've just learned, and the news is not yet broadcasting, is that contact with American flight 77 out of Dulles has been lost."

Fabian had only been in MTAC once before, and that was only to be shown around during a non-crisis time shortly after he'd joined Gibbs' team. He was finding the onslaught of images and data overwhelming, and wondered if he should ask permission before he spoke. He was a bit of a tactician, which he said came from having a father in Navy Intelligence. But he did speak up. "Uh…if those two planes were hijacked, and 77 was, too. New York's a long way away. I mean…uh, what was the flight plan of those planes?"

Morrow signaled to a tech, who checked her computer. "All bound for Los Angeles or San Francisco, sir."

"Then they have huge amounts of fuel," said Fabian. "To do the most damage, you'd want to cause the biggest bang."

"You wouldn't have the necessary speed or altitude on leaving New York, hence, Boston is you choice," Morrow nodded. "But, DC…"

"They're aiming for a target here," said Gibbs quietly. "Take the plane far enough away, and then double back…"

The SECNAV was back on screen. _"The White House has been evacuated. So us the Capitol and the House and Senate offices, as a precaution,"_ he said.

"The President…?"

_"He's in Florida, at a school. He's being briefed…Oh, my God…"_ The picture shook over a roar, and then went to the test pattern of a lost connection.

"Where was he broadcasting from?" Gibbs demanded.

"The Pentagon," replied Morrow, thickly. "Those sons-of-bitches have hit the Pentagon!"

Gibbs looked ready to run. "Sir, do you want us to go there? We can—"

"No. Stay here unless we're called for. If the Pentagon really was hit, we don't want to be in the way of the emergency responders."

That was a hard order to follow. Gibbs, like most others who had worked at NCUS HQ for a couple of years, knew people at the Pentagon…NCIS workers and military personnel alike. Gibbs pulled out his cell phone. " 'All circuits busy'," he announced.

"Director," called another tech. "There's uh…another plane missing. Flight 93, uh, United flight 93, also out of Dulles. Air traffic control can't get contact with it."

"American Airlines has grounded all domestic flights," reported another.

"The White House has ordered planes that don't responded to calls to be shot down," said another tech. "Uh, that's unconfirmed. Don't know who said that…"

"Has the world gone nuts?" Stan wondered.

"What can we do?" asked Fabian.

"I'm sending people home," Morrow said after a minute's thought. "There's no need for everyone to stay here, when we don't know…"

* * *

><p>He assembled the staff in the largest meeting room. His speech was short. "Due to the uncertainty around today's events, I am sending home everyone except the special agents and a few other key people. Go home; be with your families and the ones you love. Be safe. No questions, please; if you have any serious issues, please direct them to your supervisor." Morrow turned and left.<p>

"I have…no one to go home to," said Esther from Accounting, to no one in particular. "I'm divorced; my children are grown and in Alaska and France. Please; can't I just stay and work? I don't…I don't want to be alone…"

"Esther, it's for your own safety," said her boss, kindly. "But if you really, really want to stay…"

"I do. I'd feel better with people around me."

"Okay, then."

* * *

><p>The rest of the rank-and-file, making up a little under half of the HQ work force, filed out, knowing that they might face horrible traffic jams and Metro delays as many other employers let their people go…but it would be worth it to be able to hug their spouses and kids as soon as possible.<p>

"I don't want to go, either," said a man, shaking his head. "What if they attack the Metro? There won't be safety anywhere!"

"I'll give you a ride home, Keith," said another. "But we can't let fear run our lives."

* * *

><p>Soon the building was much quieter, with so many employees gone. Even Esther of Accounting crossed paths with her boss in the squad room. She was in tears. "Murray—that's my ex—called me. He was worried about me. He says he'll pick me up if I meet him on M Street." She smiled through her tears. "He knew I wouldn't want to be alone. He's really a nice man."<p>

"Go," said her boss.

* * *

><p>The bad news continued as the towers collapsed, and news from the Pentagon was spotty. People had caught images on their cell phones of both locations and sent them in, until the cell towers in New York went under, and news fell into a black hole…or rather, a hole of endless swirling cinders and dust. All NCIS could do was watch the scant news play over and over again. Fabian secretly hoped the team would be called out on a case; anything to take them away from this…but it seemed that the whole country was transfixed by the broadcasts.<p>

Fabian took a break. He needed one; the horror was beginning to be too much to bear, particularly when there was nothing someone in his position could do. He thought he would get some fresh air. The weather was beautiful, for such a tragic day…

He was accosted in the first floor hallway. "_You_ did this!" a woman yelled at him. "You and all your Arab friends!"

Fabian ignored her and moved on. Yes, people would be upset today. They'd be more reasonable tomorrow. No need to stir up animosity today.

_"Hey, al-quaeda!"_ A man called to him when Fabian stepped outside.

_This_ junk he wouldn't take from his fellow agents, who should know him better. "Jensen, I'm as much of an American as you are," Fabian replied, trying to keep his tone non-toxic.

"That's what _you_ say. But what's your _real_ identity, towel-rat?" sneered Agent Meadows, who had confronted him in the squad room earlier.

A third man closed in. Fabian started to get nervous. "Look, it's a trying time for everyone. I just want to see if the food court is open, and—" He gasped and doubled over at the blow to his stomach. Then a kick to his back sent him to his knees. The blows came fast then, and he couldn't help crying out.

"I've got buddies at the Pentagon, you scum," yelled Meadows. "Buddies I can't reach by phone. An eye for an eye; that's what they say. Maybe you want to get to your 70 virgins in heaven soon, huh?"

"Meadows, don't." said Jensen. "That's not what was in the plan."

"Screw the plan! This is for all _real_ Americans!"

Fabian could smell the gasoline as the container was opened. "No, _please_!" He cried. "I beg you…" He gulped and closed his mouth and tried to close his nostrils as the gas was poured over him. Silently, he prayed.

Meadows pulled a lighter from his pocket. "Revenge," he said.

_"Drop it!"_ a new voice barked. _Stan!_ This registered in Fabian's mind, followed by a silent longing to not have his partner witness this.

Instead, Meadows raised the lighter, and flicked it to flame; with an evil grin…

…and that was when Stan shot him.


	3. Aftermath

**Chapter 3: Aftermath**

* * *

><p>The hospital waiting room was crowded and noisy; not helped by the <em>ZNN<em> reports playing on the TV screens. Gibbs was angry: angry that they'd had to take Fabian all the way to Bethesda because the closer hospitals were taking the fallout from the Pentagon. Angry that he begrudged the Pentagon workers their rightful care. Angry at the people, whoever they were, behind this day's tragedies.

Bethesda saw some of the Pentagon casualties, to be sure; it _was_ the flagship hospital of the Navy, after all. And then in an unrelated incident, there was a busload of third-graders en route to a field trip that had been sideswiped and skidded off the road, causing boo-boos and minor injuries; all needing treatment so the lawyers wouldn't scream. This lack of common sense also made Gibbs angry.

Next to Gibbs, Stan shifted in his chair uncomfortably. They'd been at the hospital for over an hour, and all they were being told was that Fabian was still "in treatment". What did that mean? They didn't know, and no one would tell his team yet. The EMTs had stripped Fabian at the scene and in fact, taken him back inside NCIS to one of the showers…running lukewarm water over him, over and over and over, to wash away the gasoline. It was such a dangerous substance, even when not lit, they'd said. The longer it was allowed to absorb into the system, the more havoc it created. And then there were the wounds from the beatings; the blood—so much blood. How much gasoline had entered his body through those; a poison if ever there was one? When Gibbs told Ducky about that factor, the ME had clammed up and refused to speculate. It was unlike him to be at a loss for words.

_How could this happen? In our own "community", as the Director calls NCIS?_

_How could some of our highly-trained operatives hate each other that much…when they hardly knew each other?_

The EMTs, under guidance from their hospital and Ducky, had washed Fabian over and over. Gibbs had just wanted to get him to the hospital; let them do it there. They'd said no. Gibbs was not going to get his way. They knew better. He was beginning to feel like he didn't know anything at all.

Gibbs considered his team perfect. A little clownish at times; a little rowdy at times, but all-in-all, as perfect as one could ask for. Stan, for all his sometimes aloofness, excelled in all aspects of the job. Fabian, a scene-stealer, nonetheless had the instincts and aptitude that would have him winning awards right and left in coming years. He would go far. And Gibbs would be able to point to him and say, _I_ trained him. That's my man.

But how could he not have known Fabian was being harassed? He'd asked Morrow about it; he had been unaware, too. Clearly Stan had known, but like brothers covering for each other in the presence of the parent, they'd kept it to themselves. _Abby must have known._ She was fond of both of "my boys", as she called them.

_Why didn't he come to me?_

Gibbs reflected on a boy he'd known, growing up in Stillwater. A boy from the only Jewish family in town. He'd had to endure harassment from some of the kids who just didn't understand someone who was different. The pack mentality says that everyone has to fit in with the norm. The "way of life" is threatened when there are differences. Stuff and nonsense, of course, but that was what drove some people. The Jewish boy endured and had friends, but there was always a cloud at the back of his eyes. He would go on…but he would always be wary.

_Am I so distant that my team can't come to me with troubles?_ "Stan…"

Stan looked up from his own thoughts. "I wonder how much longer they'll be," he sighed.

"It takes what it takes."

"I guess you're right."

"Stan…"

"What?"

"You going to need help packing?"

Stan jumped. "How did you know…"

"I'm a supervisor. Part of the job to know."

"I…Sorry, Gibbs. I should have told you. I just found out this morning."

Gibbs stretched. "Known ever since you put in for it. Before, even. You expressed interest to Morrow."

Looking flustered, Stan said, "I should have known I couldn't keep anything from you. You're like a sniffer hound."

_Not about everything._ Allowing himself a slight grin, Gibbs then sobered. "I wish you all the best, Stan, and I'm sure this is what you want to do."

"More than I can say."

"Well, good. That's good. Glad you got it." Gibbs didn't say what he thought, which was, _Are you doing this because you feel you can't work with me? You don't trust me?_

_Is that why you didn't tell me about Fabian?_

* * *

><p>It was hours before they could see him. He wasn't conscious, and had many tubes assuring open airways and intake of fluids, but at least he was no longer convulsing. The doctors were cautiously optimistic. "I'm staying with him, Gibbs," Stan said stoutly.<p>

Gibbs would have liked to have stayed, too, but he sensed that this was a time for the "brothers."

He felt left out, and despite having five years as the supervisory special agent under his belt, he felt lie he still had a lot to learn. Trust was never to be demanded; it could only be earned.

* * *

><p>Two days later Fabian was awake. Though a bit fuzzy around the edges with painkillers, he was eager to talk once the intubation was out. "What a feeling! Did you know that my brother and my sister and I were all born in the '70s, Gibbs? The time of flower power? My parents loved those days. That's why my brother was named 'Harvest' (he was born in September) and my sister was named 'Moonstone'. She was born under a full moon."<p>

"And you got the ordinary name."

Fabian chuckled. "Not too ordinary. I think it's kind of classy."

"I'm sorry, Fabian."

"Why? I like my name."

"Not that. I let you down." Gibbs twisted his hands. "You should have come to me. I did something wrong. Didn't give you the feeling that you could have come to me. _Should_ have. Right from that first note. Could have nipped the problem in the bud."

Fabian's guard went up. "No, it's okay, Gibbs."

"No, it's _not_ okay!" Gibbs' fist hit the side of the bed with more force than he intended. "I understand that you've gone through this before—"

"You _don't_ understand," Fabian said quietly. "Unless you've lived through it, you can _never_ really understand."

"Doesn't mean I can't try. But you have to meet me halfway. And you have to trust in people who have some power, like your supervisor, who _can_ intervene when there's a problem. Hatred is a poison, Fabian. There's no room for it in NCIS. Turning a blind eye to it allows it to spread rot and even turn people to its way of thinking.

"Those three would have killed you because of their hate."

"They were hurting. The terrorist attacks…"

"Not an excuse. _Never_ an excuse. If you take one thing away from this, make it be that."

* * *

><p>A week later, Fabian was recovering, but still frail. The gasoline poisoning had left him damaged, and recovery would be slow. Gibbs came to see him one evening just as Stan was leaving.<p>

Fabian was morose. "I won't get out of here in time to see Stan leave. It's just days from now."

Gibbs was well aware of that; he'd helped Stan with the packing and cleaning of his small bachelor apartment. "He's been coming to see you every day…"

"Not the same."

"I know." Gibbs had so many regrets. _If I'd been a more understanding boss, maybe Stan wouldn't be leaving._ "But…eventually you'll leave this country club and be back at work." But that would be months off. By then Gibbs would already have an agent in Stan's place.

"I'm not coming back."

"What?" This was unexpected.

"I'm not coming back. I've been thinking about it, and…this is not the right fit for me."

"If it's because of me, you can always get on another team. Or a transfer. Want to work at Great Lakes? Be close to home?"

"No, that's not it. And it's nothing to do with you."

"What, then? The agency would be crazy to want to see you go."

"I just…I keep seeing that scene, over and over in my mind. I keep smelling the gasoline…"

"Counseling…"

"Maybe it would help. Maybe it wouldn't. I've shrugged off bullying before in my life. I don't know that I can shrug off this." He grimaced. "And please don't tell me, like my father did, that if I leave NCIS, 'the terrorists will have won.' I'm young, Gibbs, but I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. I know that sometimes, you don't win. I need to find another direction for my life."

"I hope you'll change your mind. You're not going to be working anywhere for months."

"Maybe. We'll see." But they both knew that was not likely to happen.

* * *

><p><em><strong>September 11, 2011 – NCIS HQ<strong>_

In MTAC, Gibbs' team, along with Director Vance, stood at respectful attention. It would be a multi-screen feed coming from USNavy and Marine stations, ships and bases all over the world. Ten years on…when the current young group of sailors and Marines had just been children. Today Vance, Gibbs and co. would be the stateside face of NCIS. This remembrance ceremony would be taped, edited, and made available to all NCIS employees in the coming weeks.

The 9/11 losses, particularly those at the Pentagon, were still felt. Gibbs would never forget what 9/11 meant to him: the break-up of his team. Stan was still doing the Agent Afloat bit. He had a knack for it. Of course he did: Stan had a knack for everything. He kept in touch, now and then.

Fabian didn't. Gibbs didn't know where he was, or what he was doing. He _could_ use his skills and find out, but that felt to him like snooping. Stan probably knew, but he wasn't volunteering information, so Gibbs was left wondering.

Gibbs took a minute to cast a glance at his team: Tony, cocky and with the same natural instinct for the job that Stan had had. Ziva, a thorough fighter and tactician. Tim, not so shy anymore, but still likely to always keep his light under a bushel…only those who knew him well appreciated his talents. _I have another perfect team._

_I've long since learned, I think, how to get them to trust me._

"Five seconds to the SECNAV," said one of the techs. "Three…two…"

The beaming face of the SECNAV (not the same one from 2001) appeared on the screen, all the way from the Hawaii field office. Who knew what he was doing there? Vacation? _"Good day, Director Vance, Agent Gibbs, and to your team. Thanks for joining us on this solemn day."_

"A pleasure to be here, sir," said Vance.

The SECNAV went into a long speech, standing in front of a short line of Navy officers: an Admiral and what one assumed to be aides or high-ranking Intelligence officers, all in crisp whiter-than-white uniforms. On other screens, from other locations, people listened politely.

Gibbs' eye tracked the officers, and kept coming back to the captain on the far right. He had dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. At one point, over the distance, their eyes met…and the captain smiled slightly and winked.

"Dang it, Gibbs;" Vance hissed. "Did that young pup of a captain just _wink_ at me?"

"Don't think that was aimed at you, Leon," Gibbs said, unable to suppress a grin.

-END-


End file.
